Chapter Five

The clear blue afternoon darkens, and rain spatters the windscreen. By the time we get home it’s pouring. A sudden squall rattles along the cliffs, passing as fast as it arrived. The sun comes back, bathing the clean-rinsed world in mellow afternoon light. Alice and I are out on the sea porch admiring the golden sparkles on the water when I remember the washing. I bring it inside, cross with myself. What the hell use is that? All that trouble to hang washing in the sunshine and then to bring it in wetter than it started out. There’s a brand new tumble dryer in the laundry, but it’s still crated. Briefly, I consider breaking it open but unfold the drying rack instead and peg the sodden items to that. That’ll do.

Alice has her egg, scrambled, for supper, along with green beans, carrots and some cucumber and tomato salad.

“I never tasted this.” She points to everything except the egg.

“What does Daddy cook for you?” I ask.

“Pizza.”

I thought so. Although, taut and toned Lucas is living proof that a pizza and beer diet has merits. Mmm.

After supper we go upstairs and run Alice’s bath, adding liberal amounts of bubble bath. She spends ages playing in the water and chatting to me and her bath toys until, eventually, the bubbles melt away and it’s time to get out.

“Where are red pyjamas?” She glances at the yellow and pink ones I’ve laid out on her bed.

“You mean the blue ones you had on yesterday?”

She nods, watching my face with worried eyes.

“I washed them today, Alice, so they’re wet.”

“But I want them.”

“You can have them tomorrow.”

“I want them!”

“Tomorrow. You can have them tom—”

She bursts into tears, and this is an understatement. It’s more a tantrum of profound grief, an anthem of heartbreak.

Alarmed to say the least, I try to gather her in my arms but she fights me.

“Want my red pyjamas.”

“Alice. Alice! Alice.” Eventually I break through the vicious cycle of full-on weeping. “Be quiet and you can have your pyjamas. I’ll make a plan.”

Now what have I said? She looks at me, everything streaming. I dry her face with a towel unable to meet the unbearable distress in her eyes.

“First…” I hold up the rejected pink and yellow pyjamas, you must put these on.”

She won’t.

“Just for now, Alice. Then we can go downstairs to see if your blue pyjamas are dry.”

She won’t, and that’s definite.

I think, fast and wild. “What about one of my tee-shirts? That will be fun!”

“No.”

What now? Shall I take her in the damp towel? And what are we going to look for anyway? The pyjamas are still wet, wet, wet. I know it.

“Okay then. What about one of Daddy’s tee-shirts?”

She considers this and nods her head. Phew. We’re hardly progressing through this crisis in leaps and bounds, but here is a glimmer of hope.

We go into Lucas’s room, and Alice shows me where he keeps his tee-shirts. “You choose one,” I suggest.

“Red one.” She points to a black one and I pull it out of the pile, shake it open and put it on her before she changes her mind. Of course it’s vast, pooling around her feet, slipping off her shoulders. I bunch the fabric in her hands and she follows me back to my bedroom, tripping up like a desolate baby penguin. It breaks my heart, even though she’s stopped crying. The large safety pin I find, left discarded in the bottom of my suitcase is a godsend. I don’t know how it got there, but it’s been there forever, like a weird kind of talisman and now I know why. It’s a sign that life may possibly return to normal, one day. I use the pin to make the tee-shirt neckline smaller for Alice, hooking up the back hem like a mini bustle.

“Let’s take a picture to show Daddy.” I take out my phone, take a picture of Alice drowning in Lucas’s tee-shirt, and send it to Lucas’s email address with the title Blue Pyjamas Disaster. Alice even manages a watery smile.

That done, I say, “Let’s go and have a look in the laundry room. Let’s go see how your pyjamas are doing.”

We hold hands and go downstairs. As I thought, the pyjamas are wet. In fact I’m pretty sure they are wetter.

“Alice, I think you must sleep in Daddy’s tee-shirt tonight.” I show her how wet the pyjamas are.

“Noooo!”

What now? I glance at the crated dryer. “Does Daddy have tools?” If I’m going to break into that baby, I’ll need more than a teaspoon.

Alice shakes her head.

Uh-oh. “Does he have a hammer?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go and get it, shall we?”

She takes me into Lucas’s studio and shows me a cupboard at the far end containing man-stuff.

“Oh, Daddy has many tools! Look at these lovely hammers, Alice. These will help us get your pyjamas dry.”

She nods, but her forlorn eyes convey the message that I have let her down badly, that it might take forever to deserve forgiveness.

I select my weapon and we go back to the dryer. I put Alice on the counter, well out of harm’s way, and attack. It’s like prising a reluctant oyster from its shell. I use the opposite side of the hammer—that double-pronged thingy, to haul huge metal staples forth, screaming, from splintery wood, straight into my splintery hands. My nails split. I break out in a sweat, but I’m on it. I will do this. Eventually, I expose the back of the machine. Yay, cord and plug. We’re on the home straight, except there’s no way I can shift the machine by myself, or can I? Because the plug won’t reach the wall-socket. I face my nemesis, pushing and shoving, ramming it with my hip, my other hip, even my bum—at least it makes Alice laugh—until the plug can be plugged in.

Done. I cut the thick plastic away from the front of the machine and twiddle the dials. In seconds, the machine’s going with the pyjamas inside, the lonesome remaining buttons pinging against the drum. We are not exactly saving the planet by putting a tiny set of pjs into a tumble dryer on the hottest setting, but when needs must, the devil drives. I’m going to put Alice to bed now, phone Julie, and have a big glass of wine. Except I’m not. She won’t be left. In the end after much—failed—cajoling that only makes her cry all over again, I get into bed and cuddle her. After a while, her sobs turn to hiccoughs, her breathing evens out and she goes heavy in my arms. Asleep. Asleep and peaceful at long last, poor little thing. I stroke her back, murmuring “Shhh, shhh,” again and again until she is fast asleep.

Alice has framed photos on the shelf next to her bed, and I gaze at them in the half-dark while she sleeps, her face pressed into my neck. They’re all of her and Lucas—one when she was a baby, one at about a year old, she with a ponytail on the very top of her head, the hair falling outwards like leaves of a pineapple, he with suntan, shades and a big grin, and so on. He’s nice. I could like him. A person, a woman, could love that sort of man, they could. Coupled with what little I know, I can see the type of man he is. A keeper, as Holly would say, I bet. There are several more photos, always the two of them, Alice and Lucas, hugging each other, father and daughter. Alone.

Why no pics of Mummy? Why no mention? Alice never mentions. What would I say if she did? I’m certainly not going to mention. There’s no evidence of Mummy anywhere, no reference, no clues. Whatever, I’ll steer well clear of the subject. I’d hate to risk releasing another torrent of despair. What would that be like, given the pyjama anguish? I close my eyes, emotionally exhausted. I’m tired, arms and back aching from carrying Alice. She shifts, moves her head and snuggles closer, if that’s possible, her light breath warm on my shoulder. I don’t think about it, but it’s there…the fragrance of Lucas all around me, that clean man smell when I opened the closet door and placed my hand on the cool cotton of the tee-shirt pile.

Ah. Ooh. Pins and needles. My arm’s numb. Where? What? I try to sit up, but Alice is lying on my arm. The Hello Kitty clock next to her bed says 02h30. I extricate myself, taking care not to wake Alice, but no worries on that score—she’s like a big ragdoll. She flops onto her pillow. I cover her and go to bed.

If I weren’t so tired, I’d ring Julie and tell her how tired I am.